


Reclamation

by RandomSlasher (Randomslasher), Thuri



Series: Taming a Hawk [2]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M, Post Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:52:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randomslasher/pseuds/RandomSlasher, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thuri/pseuds/Thuri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dealing with the aftermath of Loki's control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reclamation

Phil was going to be okay.

That was all that should matter. That was all that _did_ matter. Clint told himself that when Fury sat them down, three days after the destruction of Manhattan, and told them the truth. He told himself that when he sat nursing bloodied knuckles in the medical bay while a nurse stitched Fury’s cheekbone. He told himself that when Fury said, given the extreme circumstances, he was willing to give Clint three month’s paid suspension instead of tossing his ass off the helicarrier into the Atlantic.

Phil was alive. Phil was going to be okay.

It took him almost a week to realize the paid suspension was a thinly-veiled cover for allowing Clint to stay with Phil--which he would have done anyway--and to look after him when he was finally (finally) released from the hospital, three weeks after his injury.

But that didn’t matter. Because Phil was okay.

He was going to be okay.

Clint himself, he feared, was an entirely different story.

* * *

“Do you want the rest of this juice?” Clint asked the refrigerator, frowning at the expiration date on the carton of Florida’s Natural. “It expired yesterday.”

“Does it smell all right?”

Clint unscrewed the cap and sniffed. “Yeah.”

“Then sure.”

Clint nodded, rising and moving to the counter, pouring what was left of the orange juice into a glass before tossing the carton itself into the trash can. “Need to go grocery shopping later,” he remarked.

Phil made a noncommittal sound from the couch. Clint finished fixing his tray--oatmeal, bacon and eggs (turkey bacon and egg whites because Phil’s heart was fine, but there was no need to tempt fate) and moved into the living room where Phil was currently propped in a nest of cushions and blankets, surrounded by books, magazines, and his laptop, and within easy reach of the remote control.

“Thank you,” Phil said as Clint set the tray on the table.

“No problem,” Clint replied, rising to his feet and wiping his hands on his jeans. “Eat up, sir. Oatmeal’s crap when it’s cold.”

“Join me?”

Clint shook his head. “No, thanks. I hate oatmeal.” He gave Phil a shit-eating grin, and Phil rolled his eyes, lifting the bowl from the tray. Clint turned away, heading back into the kitchen to clean up only after he’d watched Phil take a few bites.

When Phil had eaten as much as he wanted, Clint gathered the dishes onto the tray and moved into the kitchen, setting them on the counter. He filled the sink with hot water and soap, putting the dirty dishes in to soak, then picked up the pot of coffee and went to top off Phil’s mug.

As he leaned in to do so, however, Phil’s hand on his wrist stopped him. He blinked, looking up to find Phil watching him, face unreadable. He paused. “Sir?” he said. “Do you not want any more coffee?”

“No, Clint,” Phil sighed. “I don’t want any more coffee.”

“Okay.” Clint shrugged, moving to rise and return the pot to the kitchen, but Phil didn’t release him. He blinked, looking down at the hand on his wrist, then back up at Phil. He arched an eyebrow. “Did you just want to look at it, instead?”

“Don’t be a smartass, Barton.”

Clint arched the other eyebrow. “I thought that was my job, sir.”

“Then don’t do it while you’re off the clock. If you’re good at something, never do it for free.”

“Well, I am on paid leave, sir,” Clint pointed out, ignoring the movie reference.

Phil sighed, looking disappointed, and Clint cringed, the joke feeling flat to him, too. But what the hell else was he supposed to say? It had been three weeks--three fucking weeks, and all he’d been able to do was cook for Phil, clean up the apartment, ask him if he was okay.

Of course he wasn’t okay. He’d been stabbed through the chest by a psychotic god. What did you say after that? _How ‘bout them Yankees?_

“This has gone on long enough,” Phil said, taking the coffee pot from Clint’s hand and setting it on the end table.

“What has, sir?” Clint asked.

“This,” Phil said, waving a hand around them, between them. “You playing the guilt-ridden, solicitous boyfriend or...houseboy or whatever it is you’re trying to be. You’ve been waiting on me hand and foot--”

“You were stabbed through the chest, sir. It seemed rude to make you cook.”

“--and you’ve been calling me ‘sir’ outside of work--and outside of the bedroom,” Phil said softly. “And you’re tiptoeing around me like you think I’m going to break.”

“Again, si--Phil. Stabbed through the chest.”

“I’m not made of glass, Clint. I would have thought surviving being stabbed through the chest would have proven that to you.”

Clint didn’t have an answer to that, so he picked at a thread on his jeans instead and didn’t look at Phil.

Phil heaved a frustrated sigh. “It’s not that you’re scared,” he said after a moment, frowning. “Is it?”

“Scared of what, sir?”

“Dammit, Barton.”

“Phil.”

“Thank you.” Phil frowned at him. “You’re not scared,” he said after a long moment. “Not exactly, anyway. What is it, then? Are you worried about me? I’m going to be fine.”

“Yes, s--Phil.” Clint shifted uncomfortably. “Is it alright if I go do the dishes now? I hate cold dish water.”

Phil didn’t answer, but continued to stare at him, face unreadable. Clint knew he was growing flushed under the scrutiny, but Phil’s gaze held him pinned as effectively as any cell or pair of handcuffs could have. He swallowed, looking away again.

“You’re angry with me.”

The words were spoken softly, almost awed, as if Phil couldn’t quite believe he hadn’t seen it before.

“You _have_ made me watch more reality TV this month than I usually do in a year,” Clint said, squirming slightly, shifting from foot to foot.

Phil held him pinned with a gaze that hardened by degrees, until Clint couldn’t have looked away if he’d wanted to. “Clint,” he said once, voice soft and gentle and demanding utter, unquestioning obedience all at once.

Clint swallowed, hard, his hands clenching into tight fists at his side. “Yes, sir,” he whispered back, and this time Phil didn’t correct him.

“Talk to me.”

Clint swallowed again, clenching his fists tighter with the urge to run. To get away, get somewhere high and safe, where no one could see him. Where Phil would stop saying he was angry, would stop trying to make him _talk_. “I...”

“ _Barton_.”

Clint opened his mouth...and closed it again, when nothing came out. Dammit. _Dammit_. He’d known this was coming, known it since the moment he’d found himself in his own head again, but he still wasn’t ready. “I don’t know what to say, sir,” he managed, finally, his voice hoarse to his own ears.

“Bullshit.” Phil stared at him, eyes hard and demanding. “You’re angry with me.”

“I shouldn’t be,” Clint said, shaking his head, his blunt nails digging painfully into his palms.

“Whether or not you _should_ be is a question for philosophers and psychologists,” Phil said, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m not interested in that. You _are_. What I’m interested to know is, do you know why?”

Clint hesitated, clenching his jaw, ready to tell Phil he _wasn’t_ , that the other man was being ridiculous, and that yeah, he’d been a little on edge but he wasn’t used to Phil being this badly hurt and it’d all pass in time and not to worry so fucking much. But when he opened his mouth, something very different came out. “You let him take me.”

Phil’s eyes widened slightly, then filled with something it hurt to look at, some awful combination of understanding, regret, sorrow, and _sympathy_. Fuck. “You mean Loki.”

“Who the fuck else?” Clint grated, raking a hand back through his hair. Dammit, he shouldn’t...they shouldn’t...there was no _need_ for this. It was his own fucked up problem, part of his own fucked up head, he shouldn’t be pushing it off on Phil. “Forget it, okay? It wasn’t your fault, I _know_ that, I just...”

“Blame me.”

“Yes. No! No, I...fuck,” Clint swore, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know,” he said, finally. “Maybe.” _Fuck. He’s right. I do. I’m supposed to be his, not anyone else’s, and that bastard took it all away with a flick of his staff..._

Phil sighed, reaching up and rubbing his forehead. “Clint,” he said softly, “why don’t you sit down.”

Clint dropped to the floor where he stood, dropping his head to his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said, in the silence that followed, his throat trying to close up on itself. “You’re...you shouldn’t have to deal with my shit, not when you’re recovering. I can...the others all want a chance to look after you, I can...can leave, if you want to wait, to...”

“Bullshit.”

Clint looked up, frowning, to see Phil staring at him coolly. “What?”

“I said that’s bullshit. I’m calling you on it. Bullshit. If you wanted to run away from this, you would have done it already, not sit there offering to do it. You want me to tell you no, because you don’t actually _want_ to run this time. You’re tired of running, and you know what? I’m tired of watching you do it. So bullshit. You’re not going anywhere, _I’m_ sure as hell not going anywhere, and we’re going to sit down and figure this thing out, because you’re right, I _did_ just get stabbed through the chest, and I’m in no fucking mood to coddle you right now.”

Clint stared at Phil, caught between surprise at his words and the inevitable admiration he experienced any time Phil really began to dress someone down. Even when that someone was him. “That’d be a change from most people,” he said, slowly, thinking of how even Tasha was looking at him from behind hooded eyes, judging her words too carefully before speaking.

“When in our history together have I ever been _most_ people?” Phil pointed out.

Clint shrugged. Aside from the fact he’d misjudged Phil when he’d first met him, thinking him just a suit...never. “You aren’t,” he replied, forcing himself to take a deep breath and let it out again. “Fine. I’m pissed at you. It’s irrational, but it’s still there. I’m supposed to belong to _you_ , and you let him take me away.”

Phil nodded once, tightly. “Yes.”

It was an invitation to continue talking, so Clint did.

“And yeah, I’ve been taken before,” he said, looking down at his feet, not sure if the tightness in his chest was from forcing the words out or trying to keep up with saying them, “I’ve been captured, I’ve been tortured. Yeah, there’ve been ops that’ve gone so far off the map we were in the fucking Twilight Zone. Yeah, there have been times you couldn’t protect me, and I was okay with that. But they never...it never mattered before. Not the same way. No one ever touched _me_. I could let all that shit happen, because it never got under my skin. But he... _Jesus_ , Phil.” Clint squeezed his eyes shut, again feeling the seductive, incredible, horrible _pleasure_ of Loki in hs head. Of the God’s approval, of the way he’d turned to it, like a flower to the sun. Of how he’d _responded_ , like he never had to anyone but Phil. “He made me his and he made me _want_ it.”

“Yes.”

“He made me want it, want him to...fuck. To make him proud. Not even to do what he said, but to make him _proud_.” Clint heaved a deep breath, feeling like he’d been running, running hard. “And I did. That’s the hell of it. I made him very, very proud, Phil. I was _good_ at what he wanted me to do, and I did it better than anyone else could’ve and I...I killed co-workers, I killed _friends_ , and I very nearly got you killed, and...and it felt good. Like...like performing well for you.”

Phil nodded once. “You did,” he said. “Perform well for him, I mean. You did everything he could have hoped and more. You were very nearly our undoing. You almost destroyed everything we’d built. He couldn’t have done it without you.”

“And he didn’t start losing until you got me back,” Clint pointed out, more quietly now. “If Tasha hadn’t...Jesus, Phil, it was too close. If I’d had more sleep, I might’ve taken her. I was close. So close...and I was headed toward the cage when she caught me.”

“You would have killed me,” Phil said quietly. “If we’d met. If we’d confronted one another you would have killed me without a second thought.”

Clint nodded. “I...yes. I would’ve,” he admitted, his gut twisting on a hot snake of shame. “I couldn’t fight him by then, not like at first, when I shot Fury. I’d...stopped trying to.”

Phil nodded. “Clint,” he said, “do you understand what Loki did to you?”

“Mind-raped me?” Clint suggested, thinking Tony’s term for it was still the best.

“In a sense,” Phil said. “But it’s more than that. He took a very specific part of your mind. He didn’t brainwash you--you still held onto your skills and your personality. He didn’t even take over your will. What Loki took from you was even worse. He took your _trust_ , and your ability to choose to whom you would give it. And that is the worst possible thing anyone can ever take from anyone else.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and gazed at Clint unwaveringly. “You chose to give it to me once,” he said. “Then he took it away and kept it for himself. So in a sense, he didn’t take anything from you at all. He took it from _me_. Because you’d given it to me for safekeeping, and I didn’t protect it.”

“Oh...” Clint said, a bit shakily, as Phil’s words began to sink in, to take hold of him.

“And now it’s back,” Phil said softly, eyes focused and intent. “It’s yours again, but it’s a broken, wounded thing, and you’re afraid to let it out of your sight again. You never trusted Loki--not of your own volition--but you trusted _me_ and this was the result. And now you don’t know what to do. You can’t trust yourself, you never _have_ \--but now you can’t trust me either. And that has left you broken, more so than anything else that man could have ever done to you.” He sat back and gazed at Clint softly. “Am I right?”

Clint nodded, mutely, unable to speak. Damn Phil for being so fucking perceptive. Damn him for _knowing_. It made Clint feel horribly exposed, all his deepest wounds open and bleeding freely. It was all the twisted, horrible thoughts and pain coiled within him laid painfully bare.

“So now we’re here,” Phil murmured softly. “The two of us, and your trust. You can’t keep it, and I won’t demand it, because that’s the difference between me and _him_. I will never, _ever_ ask something of you that you don’t wish to give me. Nor will I promise I would never let anything like this happen again, because I am not all-powerful, or a god, or even a super-human. I’m just Phil Coulson, your handler, your lover, your friend. I’m just a man, Clint.” He sat back, his eyes wet, and stared at Clint. “But I will tell you,” he whispered, “that if you ever want to try again--to _give_ me that trust and let me try to put it back together, to fix it--that I will do _whatever_ it takes, everything in my power, to keep it safe. That much, I _will_ promise.”

“Please,” Clint managed, his whole body so tense, muscles so tight he was afraid he might fly apart at any moment. But God, he needed what Phil was offering, needed it more than he ever had before. So much more than that first time, years and years ago. That’d been for their jobs, maybe for his peace of mind...this was for his _soul_. “Please, Phil...”

Phil closed his eyes, and Clint saw his shoulders tremble, slightly, for a moment. But when he opened them again, his eyes were soft, clear, calm. “Clint,” he said, rising from the couch and moving around the coffee table to stand in front of him. He reached down gently, his fingers laced through Clint’s hair, stroking softly at first. Then, abruptly, they traveled to the nape of Clint’s neck, to the short hairs there, and tightened in a firm, commanding grip. _“Barton_.”

Clint gasped, his body going limp in Phil’s hold, the familiar surge of submission pushing the welter of whirling thoughts from his mind, leaving behind a blessed quiet. “Sir,” he murmured, in reply, his tense muscles finally relaxing fully, leaving him in Phil’s hold.

Phil smiled, kneeling in front of him, his other hand rising to cup Clint’s head. “Barton,” he whispered. “Do you give yourself to me? Will you submit to me, _trust_ me, to do everything I can to keep you from harm?”

Clint licked his lips, letting out a long, slow breath, the rest of his tension melting away with it. “Yes, sir,” he said again, stronger this time. This was _his_ choice. Belonging to Phil had _always_ been his choice. That Asgardian bastard might’ve taken this away from him, but he could take it back. “I do. I will.”

Phil smiled at him, cupping his face between his hands. “Then I accept it,” he murmured gently, stroking Clint’s cheeks with his thumbs. “And I will do my best to honor that trust, and to never betray it again.” He leaned forward, slowly, and pressed his lips to Clint’s in a claiming kiss.

Clint kissed him back, opening to him, whimpering very softly as Phil’s tongue slid into his mouth. He pressed up against the kiss, closing his eyes and just remembering not to crush Phil to him.

When they finally parted, he blinked a time or two, not surprised to feel a few tears slip free. “You should sit down,” he said, not bothering to wipe them away.

Phil nodded. “I should,” he agreed, rising unsteadily to his feet. Clint helped him up, then supported him gently as they moved back to the couch and Phil eased down onto it. When he was settled, he looked up at Clint, and reached out for him. “Join me?”

This time, Clint did.

* * *


End file.
